The Warrior

by Joseph Delaney

  The tunnel curved to the left and we looked into a high, narrow chamber. In the rock wall on my left I saw three large recesses. Looking into the first, I recoiled – until I realized that this was a crypt and that its occupant had been dead for a long time. All that remained was a skeleton.

  The dead creature had been perhaps seven or eight times the height of a man, and from its torso protruded several white appendages like thin branches; it was as if the bark had peeled away after the centre had rotted and the roots withered; yet they were still covered with very fine hair like down. They were jointed in four or five places, and from the tip of each protruded a cruel barbed nail that might have been a stinger. But these limbs seemed to have been carefully positioned so as to fit in the limited confines of the recess.

  The huge skull lay in front of the body, and there were two dark holes in it – sockets that had once held the eyes.

  ‘It’s a shatek all right,’ Tyron said. ‘We’re looking at the remains of a very old sycoda shatek. This beauty probably gave birth to Hob. Ada told me that the longer they live, the larger they grow. This abomination also gives birth to itself.

  ‘Somewhere down here, a version or versions of that creature still live. That’s what we’ve got to find and destroy. Hob doesn’t simply regenerate; he can be born again and again.’

  ‘How many shateks could there be? Shalatan numbered seven hundred and thirteen selves, but only one shatek. Surely Hob has far fewer selves – so how many shateks would he need?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t forget, Leif, that Hob is a rogue djinni,’ Tyron told me. ‘He’s thrown off his original patterning and modified himself to meet his own needs. Kill Shalatan’s lone shatek and she could no longer regenerate. It would take time, but it would be a death sentence. Hob is also an artificer of Nym and can use wurdes to pattern his future. I expect he has several shateks as an insurance policy in case one or more are killed.’

  MY LORD IS MERCIFUL

  When a human soul is clothed in false flesh, is it the same or is it changed? Does it remember its past life, or only think that it remembers?

  Only Nym knows the truth.

  The Manual of Nym

  LEIF

  Soon we were moving along narrow, claustrophobic tunnels; these also radiated enough light to see clearly by. The going was softer now, the clay tugging at our boots, and the four lacs were snorting and bellowing like oxen as they struggled along with the gramagandar.

  We had moved Thrym to the back, to direct the lacs when it came to firing the weapon. I stared back at it. It was attached by leather straps to the poles, but the case had been removed so that it was ready for action.

  The gramagandar was cast from dark metal with a reddish hue – a great cylinder with a bulbous end upon which was superimposed the shape of a wolf’s head; the lips were drawn back in anger to reveal fangs, the mouth open to emit fiery breath.

  The stem was long, about one and a half times the length of a man’s body, and twice a man’s waist in circumference – and strange forms were cast upon it, looking like distended veins; and I saw words in a language I didn’t recognize, along with strange whorls and crisscrossing lines.

  The tunnel brought us at last to a dark cavern, and we were all – apart from the four lacs burdened with the gramagandar – forced to light our torches and hold them aloft. Before us was an astonishing and terrifying sight.

  Hundreds of large round grey things swayed in the darkness as if moved by the wind, even though the air was still and humid. They looked like mushrooms with very thin stalks. The cavern was full of them – row after row – almost as if they were being cultivated. There was a strong stench of rot, but it wasn’t that which brought the bile rushing up my throat so that I struggled not to vomit.

  I was not looking at fungi. They were severed human heads, swaying on long stems, each about shoulder-height. Their eyes were open and they were staring at us, their faces twitching in expressions of torment.

  So this was what Hob did to those he took into his citadel. Tyron had bought back Kern’s head and burned it so that it couldn’t fall into Hob’s evil hands again. But what was the purpose of this? Why keep these heads alive in such a dreadful fashion?

  With a cry of grief, Tyron rushed forward and began to stare at the heads, moving through the rows as if searching for something. Was he looking for a friend who had been snatched by Hob and reduced to this? I wondered.

  We formed a line beside those heads and watched silently as Tyron continued his search. After about ten minutes Konnit placed his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Go and bring him back, Leif. We can delay no longer.’

  I passed through the rows of swaying heads, watching their eyes as they pleaded with me, mouths opening and closing silently. Perhaps they weren’t all defeated combatants. Maybe some were ordinary citizens, snatched from the streets of Gindeen after dark, I thought. It seemed as if they were begging me for help. But how could they be helped – other than by doing what Tyron had done for Kern?

  He had severed the tubes at the base of his neck, which allowed him to descend into the peace of death. Should we put these poor tormented souls out of their misery as well? It would surely be a kindness.

  I reached Tyron just as he was checking the last row, staring closely into each poor face.

  ‘We need to move on,’ I said softly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, bowing his head and staring at his boots.

  ‘Were you looking for a friend?’ I asked.

  He looked up and met my eyes. ‘I was looking for a friend, but she isn’t here,’ he said. ‘I had to be sure. You’re right – we’ve delayed too long. We must move on.’

  ‘Before we go, should we give them peace?’ I asked.

  Tyron met my gaze, but then he shook his head. ‘If we succeed, there’ll be no need for that. If we fail, then we may share their fate.’

  Without any further explanation, he gave me a curt nod and then led the way back to join the others.

  Within minutes we’d reached the cavern’s far wall, and again we entered a tunnel that led to another cavern, so high and so vast that, despite our torches, its roof was lost in darkness.

  The first warning of danger was nothing more than a faint trembling in the air. Suddenly there was an ominous whistling, and then a shower of deadly arrows fell amongst us while, ahead, a blinding light, brighter than a thousand torches, was directed on us.

  Whether it was meant to blind us or to illuminate us in order to aid those who opposed us, I do not know. Out of its glare monstrous, distorted shapes moved towards us; human in form, yet with legs that were too long and arms that had too many joints. They reared up before us, an army of Hob’s deadly selves. What chance had mere humans against such entities?

  Amongst those forms were others, closer in size to men, which wore armour and brandished swords. Were these servants of Hob or his selves in different forms? Certainly, there were some servants – I could see hooded tassels there too, some running towards us on all fours.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I felt a surge of excitement and fear. This was the battle we had anticipated. This would pose a far greater threat than the one we had faced in the throne room. Instead of just one self and a few tassels, we were now up against myriad selves and an army of servants.

  We were so few. How could we hope to prevail here? So much depended upon the gramagandar, I thought. Had the Genthai ever tested it – and, if so, against what? Konnit had said nothing about this. No doubt the weapon was very old, perhaps dating from before the fall of the Human Empire. Would it still be effective? I wondered. Perhaps the djinn had developed some means of countering its threat? Perhaps that was the function of the bright light?

  And then another volley of arrows hailed down upon us. On my left I saw one embed itself deeply in Brid’s neck; he threw up his hands and collapsed, then lay convulsing at our feet.

  I fell to my knees, stunned and unable to think, holding my shield above my hea
d. And all about me, others were doing likewise, seeking to avoid the deadly shower that sought to take our lives. Our own archers hadn’t yet managed to fire a single arrow in return.

  I looked back. Only Thrym and the four lacs bearing the gramagandar were still on their feet.

  But then Konnit leaped up, a weapon in each hand. His face was contorted with fury and he was mouthing something, shouting words that were wild and unintelligible. We were all rising to our feet now, and Konnit was already running towards the light.

  As one, we began a desperate charge, our archers now wielding blades, and I ran with them, my own sense of self lost within the common purpose. As I did so, it was as if, deep within my mind, I could hear the howl of a wolf. It seemed to me that I was not just a warrior running with other Genthai to face a common enemy. I was a wolf running with its pack, seeking to tear the flesh of its enemies. And it didn’t matter that the enemy outnumbered us by at least five to one.

  In my right hand I held the short sword; in my left the circular shield. As we collided with the first ranks of our enemies, I felt something reach for me from the right and struck out with my blade; it met a solid shape, and I staggered, then regained my balance and ran on. I sliced right and left with both sword and shield, but soon the massed ranks we faced grew too great and I was being pressed on three sides.

  I turned and saw that others were fighting beside me. On my right Konnit, a huge sword in each hand, was hacking to and fro with great blows so that the enemy fell like trees before him; on my left Kalasar was finding flesh with every quick thrust and cut.

  However, now the light that shone into our eyes waxed even brighter; we were partially blinded and, as one foe fell, another sprang forward to replace it. Some were terrible indeed – far taller than men, their arms almost out of reach.

  There were too many – far too many – and soon my strength began to fail. I was forced to give ground, along with those who fought at my side.

  But then I heard a sound behind me; a vibration that set my teeth on edge. And suddenly, with a cough and a roar, the flame of the gramagandar seared out towards us.

  Even in the heat of battle I glanced back and saw that terrible tongue of purple fire surging towards the very point where we fought. It was supposed to destroy only false flesh, but surely nothing that lived could endure the intensity of such a flame?

  For a moment I was distracted and one creature sliced down at my unprotected head. I brought up my shield too late to parry that blow and knew that I was as good as dead.

  But I never felt it; instead I saw my attacker crumple before me. All around us, our enemies staggered and fell or tried to run, and the bright light began to dim like dusk following the setting sun. I saw flesh melt from faces, bones bend, eyes bubble and flow out of their sockets, limbs contort and break as the gramagandar did its deadly work.

  The flame reached out towards me again, the purple punctuated by pulses of darkness and juddering roars; but that tongue of fire licked through and past my own flesh as if it was not there. When it reached our enemies, however, its effect was lethal, their armour crumpling and twisting upon bodies that dissolved within.

  All those clothed in false flesh died; those that remained, the tassels, scampered away with whimpering cries, scurrying off like rats into the darkness.

  As one, we turned our backs on the dying and headed back towards that terrible fire. The four lacs, grimacing under the strain of its great weight, were now angling the flame upwards. At their backs, Thrym kept well away lest he too be destroyed.

  I looked up, following the weapon’s trajectory, and saw the enemy archers standing high above us, hidden until that moment by darkness. Our own archers began to fire on them, now they were illuminated by the purple flame of the Wolf’s breath. They tried to escape along the high ledge, some allowing their weapons to fall, some falling themselves even before the tongue of fire reached their flesh. And their cries were shrill upon the air as they dropped into the darkness, but the gramagandar breathed its fire along that ledge until nothing moved there.

  Its job done for now, the deadly weapon was fitted with carrying straps once more. But as the lacs prepared to take up their burden, Tyron motioned them to wait.

  Oil was poured upon the body of the fallen Brid, and a torch used to set it alight. His comrades watched silently as Tyron performed this kindness. We had no certainty of victory, and if we should be forced to retreat, he wanted to keep the remains of his friend safe from Hob.

  Meanwhile Konnit spoke quietly to me. ‘Did you feel it?’ he asked. ‘It was with us. The Wolf was with us.’

  There was a religious fervour to his voice; it sounded hoarse and wavered as if it was not fully under control.

  ‘I felt it,’ I admitted. ‘I heard it howl within my head.’

  We fell silent while the body of poor Brid burned, our nostrils filled with the stench of burning meat. Then I looked at Konnit again.

  ‘I know that the gramagandar is supposed to be harmless to human flesh, but I thought my last moment had come. I thought it would consume us too,’ I admitted.

  He smiled grimly. ‘The weapon is designed to destroy all false flesh; all those born of a shatek must fall before it. That’s why I prevented Ada from joining us here. However, even true flesh may, in time, suffer as a result of its touch. Old age may be more painful, bones become more brittle, weakness come faster. But that is of little concern to us now. Don’t worry, Leif – we are warriors and need not fear old age.’

  We continued our journey, our progress still slow. We were descending towards the deepest part of this system of caverns and tunnels. Tyron believed that far below we would find the shateks that enabled Hob to create new selves. There we would destroy them.

  Some of the torches had been lost in the battle, but enough remained to light our way; we were ever vigilant, but saw no sign of our enemy, nor of those who did his bidding.

  Sometimes we trudged along what seemed to be new tunnels, which were soft underfoot, slowing us down even further. But, increasingly, we followed ancient tunnels paved with loose stone chips linking caverns of various sizes. The caverns were created by the effects of water and other natural forces, but the tunnels had been cut by Hob and those who served him. These caverns now dripped with water, and occasionally small streams flowed across our path or meandered alongside before falling into some dark abyss.

  We came at last to a cavern where a wall of water fell sheer out of the darkness, pouring into a deep basin, where it sent up a great cloud of spray and filled the air with thunder. Within that basin the water swirled widdershins before hurtling across great boulders, then down another great cascade into the darkness.

  As we approached the tumult, our torchlight showed a slender figure waiting at its edge; the form of a woman with long fair hair blown upwards by the turbulence.

  I was astonished. Was she someone Hob had snatched from the streets and kept alive? I wondered.

  But, seeing her, Tyron let out a groan, as if he was in pain, and made his way to the front, signalling for everyone else to stay back. Sensing danger, I followed at his heels and, as he approached the woman, caught his arm.

  ‘Who is it? Is it someone you knew?’ I asked.

  Tyron’s eyes were wild in the torchlight, and I saw tears of grief glistening on his cheeks; grief growing to a torrent that threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘Aye, it’s someone I knew once, Leif. Someone worth more to me than even life itself. Her name was Jacanda, and she was the mother of Teena and Kwin. She was my wife – until Hob took her for his own.’

  Tyron had never spoken of her, and I had never questioned him. She had died of a fever when Kwin was hardly more than a baby, I had been told. Now, suddenly, much was clear. Tyron had kept a secret even from his own children – for Hob had slain Jacanda.

  With a shudder, he tore himself free of my grip and began to walk swiftly towards the woman. This cavern was dimly lit, so I seized a torch from Kalasar and ran f
orward until I drew level with him. We halted together before the woman.

  ‘I have a message for you, Tyron,’ the woman said; ‘a message from my lord.’ Her voice was hoarse and filled with pain; it was hard to hear it clearly above the roar of falling water.

  Even in the torchlight, the flame agitated by the turbulence, the evidence of Hob’s abuse was beyond doubt: Jacanda’s throat was horribly swollen, and dark bruises marked her arms and legs. The sides of her mouth had been ripped open – that or slit by a blade – and fresh blood ran in two rivulets down her neck to darken the white gown she clasped to her throat.

  Tyron groaned and held out his arms towards her. He tried to speak but, when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

  The woman was young; very young – surely the soul of Tyron’s wife clothed in false flesh and born of a shatek. In her left earlobe was a small silver earring in the form of a wolf. I suddenly realized that she looked just like Kwin.

  ‘My lord asks me to tell you that it is not too late for you to beg his forgiveness. If you turn back, he will give you two great gifts.’

  ‘Gifts?’ Tyron asked, taking a step closer.

  ‘Firstly, he will let our two daughters live out their lives in the world above unmolested. Secondly, he will allow me to return with you so that we four can once more be together.’

  Tyron shook his head and started to turn away, but she suddenly stepped forward and grasped his arm.

  ‘Oh, Tyron!’ she cried. ‘My lord is merciful. Just do what he asks and we can be happy again. Please. Please … I’ve missed you so terribly and the pain is so hard to bear. It was always you I loved. Always you.’

  Again, Tyron started to turn and reached down to move her hand off his arm. And, in that second, I saw what was going to happen. But all my speed and skill availed me nothing. I had time to take just one futile step.

  And it was already too late …

  Jacanda leaped over the edge of the pool, still holding onto Tyron’s arm. He staggered and tried to regain his balance, but then toppled with her into the abyss.